


Re-Employment

by runawayballista



Series: Freelancer Investigations [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawayballista/pseuds/runawayballista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dr. Church offers him a position at his private investigations firm, David doesn't hesitate to accept -- it's a better opportunity than he'll find anywhere else, he's sure, and no one is so willing to look past his record as the Director.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

David didn’t have much with him when he stepped off the plane at JFK. He hadn’t had much when he’d left Seattle, either -- most of what he’d had he couldn’t take with him, anyway. All of the things he could take (all the things he _wanted_ to take) fit neatly into a backpack and a single small duffel bag. He wasn’t so sure what it said about his life, that it could be packed away into such a small space.

He walked straight past the baggage claim carousel, bags in hand, heading for the security exit. The Director had said someone would meet him at the airport. David’s eyes scanned the crowds for a sign of some sort, some way to identify the stranger who’d come here for him, and his eyes settled on a neatly printed sign.

_D AVID_ _C OHEN_

The man holding the sign was black, tall and almost slightly built, with the calmest eyes David had ever seen. They were a startlingly light shade of gray, set under a thin brow. Even as David introduced himself, reached to shake his hand, the man hardly so much as blinked.

“The car is waiting outside, David,” he said, and his voice was low and cool, measured, trickling out like water. David nodded and tried to ask his name, but the question must have gotten lost in the noise of the airport, because the man didn’t answer.

He’d been to New York only once, when he was a kid. He didn’t really remember much about it other than the smell, distinctive and sharp, and when they stepped outside it hit him full in the face, just like he remembered -- the smell of people pressed tight together and concrete and car exhaust, of Chinese food and Mexican food and every kind of food he’d never even heard of, and it was overwhelming, a little nauseating, but he’d just have to get used to it. This was the smell of home, now.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was here -- not really, anyway. The simple answer was that he’d been offered a job, a job he could use. That didn’t cover it -- didn’t really cover why a man would drop everything to move to the other side of the country for a single job offer, but it was a start. After his discharge, he’d been at a loss. He was unfit for duty -- he couldn’t go back to the Corps now. He’d never finished school or learned how to be anything but a soldier, and now it felt like it was too late to learn. He could go back to school -- he’d have the money -- but David knew he’d just feel out of place at a college, already so much older than everyone else. He didn’t even know what he’d study.

And so it seemed like a godsend when Dr. Church contacted him before he’d even heard back from Veteran Affairs. It was the strangest thing, to be offered a job as a private investigator. It wasn’t something that had ever even crossed his mind. But Dr. Church said he had a unique skill set, being a soldier, and that his firm could use someone like David. David wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but Dr. Church had said that he’d take care of the licensing, the training, everything -- he _wanted_ David to work for him. There wasn’t anything tying David down to Seattle, not anymore. He didn’t have a reason _not_ to go. And it was a good job offer, better than anything David could expect from Veteran Affairs -- it had benefits, and a good salary, and he’d have something to _do_ with himself. He wasn’t hard to convince, even if he couldn’t convince himself.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a café. There was a writhing crowd on in front of it, stretched out across the sidewalk as far as he could even see. The man in the driver’s seat stepped out of the car, gesturing for David to do the same.

“The Director is waiting,” he said with that eerie, unrippling calm, and led David inside.

The place was crowded on the inside, but not clamoring. It was a classy place, tastefully decorated and furnished with small round tables and high-legged chairs, and David felt out of place in his jeans and plain t-shirt.

The Director was seated by the window towards the back of the café, the table before him bare except for a cup of coffee and a napkin, still neatly folded. “Director,” said the man, his voice somehow carrying despite its softness. “This is David Cohen.”

“Ah, David.” The Director rose to shake his hand, his mouth quirking into a slight smile. “I’m Dr. Leonard Church. We spoke on the phone.”

There was no mistaking this man for anyone but the Dr. Church who had contacted David. He had that unmistakable Southern drawl, and in the back of his mind, David wondered what it was he was doing in New York, of all places. He looked younger than David had imagined, though. The Director had to be at least twenty-five years his senior, and he looked it, but somehow when David had heard his voice, he’d envisioned a white-haired, warm-faced man, definitely a little bigger around -- a stark contrast to the stern eyes behind thick glasses and a black goatee flecked with gray.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” David said, taking a seat when the Director gestured for him to do so. “I appreciate the offer. Really, I do.”

“We appreciate you coming all this way,” the Director said. The words just rolled right out of his mouth seamlessly. It was almost hypnotizing, listening to him talk. “Freelancer Investigations would be positively _thrilled_ to have you on board, David.”

“Freelancer Investigations, huh?” David had heard the name before, of course, but it never really registered with him before. He mouth quirked up slightly. “Kind of on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” is all the Director said, and David cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “It would be a matter of only a few short weeks to make all of the necessary arrangements for your employment. If you’re prepared to give us your decision...” He pulled his briefcase onto his lap and withdrew a thin manila folder from it. He slid it across the table to David. “I have a contract drawn up here, ready for your signature. Of course, if you need some more time to consider it -- ”

“I’ll take the job,” David said quickly, surprising even himself with the readiness in his voice. “I -- I’d love to.”

There was only the faintest hint of surprise in the way the Director’s eyebrows climbed a little higher, but one corner of his mouth quirked up in a pleased smile. “Excellent,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Please, take some time to read over the contract. The Counselor here will see to it that all the necessary arrangements are made.”

David picked up the manila file, skimming through it briefly. “Thank you, Dr. Church,” he said, his voice sincere.

The Director only smiled. “I’ve made arrangements for you to stay at a hotel for the time being,” he said, rising to his feet, and after a moment’s hesitation, David did the same. “Unfortunately, I have some other business to attend to. We’ll reconvene in the morning to review the details of your employment.” He glanced at the other man -- the Counselor -- and nodded. “Counselor, if you’d be so kind to take young David here to the hotel.”

“Of course, Director,” said the Counselor, already on his feet. David extended his hand for another handshake, the file clutched tight in his other hand.

“Thank you again, sir,” he said. He felt a little flutter in his chest. “I really appreciate this opportunity -- I do.”

The Director merely smiled, shaking his hand firmly. “Welcome to Freelancer Investigations, David.”


	2. Chapter 2

The only thing that really made mountains of paperwork bearable for York was half-decent coffee to go with it. Give him a good cup of coffee, and he could get through half a day’s work in a couple of hours. Unfortunately, the coffee at the office had been in a steady decline over the course of the week, and today it tasted something approximating dirt with shit ground up in it. York made an awful face as he took a sip, shaking his head. No amount of milk or sugar could make this shit drinkable.

“Swear to God, someone’s been messing with the coffee maker,” he muttered to himself, tapping his pen against his forehead in agitation. “I had that thing set up _perfectly_ , and I even left instructions on the counter, and somehow _someone_ screwed it up again...”

He stared down at the half-filled report on the desk in front of him, then up at his computer, then back down to the report again. He’d been tapping his pen against his head, staring at the same form for the last fifteen minutes. Every time he tried gathering his thoughts into the shape of something coherent so he could fill it out, he drew nothing but blanks. He had other things on his mind -- plenty of non-work related things, like the new guy who was supposed to show up today, or the new and exciting ways in which Carolina might find to flatly say _no_ to him -- and he was in no mood for paperwork. And this shitty coffee wasn’t helping. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. He wasn’t sure he could take another two hours of this. He began to entertain the idea of walking to the nearest Starbucks in search of something that actually tasted like coffee.

York leaned over the side of his chair, twisting around to face the desk behind his. “Hey, Connie,” he said, putting on a smile, “you got a -- ”

“It’s CT.” The girl at the desk behind his looked unamused, her lips pursed into a thin line. “ _CT_ , or if you have to, Laura. Not _Connie_. Ugh.”

“CT. Sorry.” York kept his grin up, drumming the fingers of one hand over his desk. “Do you have a spare few? I’ve got this mountain of paperwork to get through, and -- ”

CT turned her nose up at him, brushing the hair from her face. She had a cute nose, kind of like a button, but no one in his right mind would tell her so. “If you think you can try and shove all your desk work off on me, then you can _get lost_. I already get cornered into doing enough people’s crap, _and_ I have a caseload of my own too, you know. I don’t need _you_ \-- ”

The phone at York’s desk began to mercifully ring, and he held up his hand at CT, earning himself a sullen glare. “Gotta take that,” he said quickly, spinning back around to face his desk. The light on the cradle told him the call was from the Director’s office. Well, wasn’t that a treat. He made a face and picked up the phone. “York,” he said abruptly, leaning back in his chair.

“York,” came the Director’s soothing drawl, creeping over the line. “I’d like to see you in my office.”

York’s fingers drummed a little more rapidly against the surface of his desk. “Sir?”

“I have our new recruit here. I would _appreciate_ if you would show him around the office and help him get settled.”

York whistled out a sigh of relief, sinking a little bit into his chair. “Sure thing, sir.” He all but dropped the phone on the cradle and stood up, straightening his shirt out. He caught CT not quite leaning over her desk out of the corner of his eye.

“What was that all about?” she asked. Her voice was filled with a guarded kind of curiosity. York just grinned at her, picking up his jacket off the back of his chair.

“New guy’s here. Director wants me to show him the ropes, I guess.” York gave a glance at the stack of papers on his desk, feigning regret. “Looks like I won’t get to this paperwork after all, huh?”

CT’s voice rang out in the office after him as he headed for the Director’s office. “I’m _not doing it for you_ , York!”

But he didn’t even acknowledge her except with a little wave over the shoulder as he turned the corner. CT huffed out a breath and slumped into her chair, annoyed. “Crawl up your own ass and die,” she muttered, dropping her chin to rest in her hand, and turned back to her computer.

* * *

The door opened inward almost as soon as York rapped his knuckles against the side of it. The Director stepped back and gestured for him to enter.

“Please, York, come in.”

York shuffled inside, jacket slung over one shoulder, and came face-to-face with a stranger -- a stranger who was maybe a couple inches taller than him and at least five years younger, good looking but not remarkably so, and he had fresh meat written all over him with the way he was clutching that stack of papers like a lifeline. He didn’t exactly exude an air of confidence, looking like he felt kind of out of place. He looked like a good kid, though, and the Director didn’t hire just anyone, so York just gave him a self-assured grin and nodded to him in acknowledgement.

“York, this is David Cohen. Designation Washington.” The Director retreated to stand behind his desk, hands folded behind him. “He will be joining the team beginning on Monday.”

“Washington, huh?” York reached out to shake the new guy’s -- David’s -- hand. “I’m York. Well, New York, technically, but no one calls me that.”

David nodded and shook his hand, though it seemed that York’s manner hadn’t put him completely at ease. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. Come on, I’ll show you around. Let’s get out of the Director’s hair, huh?” York noticed the slight face the Director made at his comment -- Dr. Church was never overly fond of York’s quips. York just shook his head and showed the new guy through the door.

“So, you from around here?”

David shook his head. “No, I’m from Seattle, actually.” York snorted a little, and David shrugged, though he almost smiled. “Yeah, I know. _Washington_. Dr. Church has kind of a...weird sense of humor.”

“Not entirely sure he has one at all, to be honest.”

“So, what -- you’re from here, then? New York, I mean?”

York laughed, rolling his eyes skyward. “You kidding? I grew up in Jersey. Sometimes I’m not so sure whether there’s any rhyme or reason to the designations, to be honest.”

“What’s the point of that, anyway? I’m curious. It’s kind of weird, that you -- we all have codenames. I mean, it’s not a military organization. You’re all civilians -- it’s not like anyone’s identities are secret, right?”

“Well, no.” York shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no one else in the hall with them. “The Director’s just kind of a weird guy, sometimes, to be honest. You’ll get used to it. He says they’re for field communication, something about keeping things professional and separate from our work lives, but -- ” He shook his head and chuckled. “It’s kind of silly and everyone knows it, but we’re all pretty used to it by now. They’re like...professional nicknames.”

“Huh.” Well, it made sense, sort of. David could see York’s point about the Director, though. He did seem kind of...eccentric. He supposed you had to be, to hire someone like himself out of the blue. “So -- you don’t mind my asking what your real name is, do you?”

“Van der Haast.”

“Bless you,” David said, his expression baffled.

“No, you -- ” York snorted. “It’s Neil. Neil van der Haast. But everyone pretty much just calls me York. The designations stick pretty hard around here.”

“Yeah.” David’s eyes wandered around the corridor, taking in the scene around him. It was a pretty big office building, but judging by the directory in the lobby, it was occupied by a whole host of different businesses. “How big is the firm, anyway? I mean, I got kind of an idea from talking to the Director, but -- I mean, how many people does he have working for him, exactly?”

“Well, that’s kind of a loaded question.” York raked a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful. “You included, I’d say we’ve got about ten detectives working at any given time, if you count Iowa. And to be fair, not everybody does.”

“I see.” David wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with the undertone of York’s answer, but he let it drop. If there was something fishy going on around here, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know just yet. He’d only just gotten here. “That’s a lot, isn’t it? I mean, I always got the impression private detectives tended to work alone.”

“Really no such thing as a private detective who works alone. One thing you’re gonna learn quick about this business, Wash -- real-life private investigation stuff isn’t anything like what you see in movies.”

David blinked at him. “Wash?”

York shrugged. “Washington’s kind of a mouthful, and no one here goes very long without a nickname stuck to them. Best to pick the first good one that comes your way.” He cocked an eyebrow at David. “Unless you’d rather be called...David.”

“Wash is good,” he said quickly. York gave him a lopsided grin.

“See, you’re fitting in already.” They came to the end of the corridor, and York pushed open the double doors in front of him. “This is the main office. Freelancer has this whole floor -- there’s a couple of meeting rooms, the Director’s office, archives, stuff like that -- but this is where the main action happens.”

David -- no, _Wash_ , he corrected himself, and the thought was almost a comfort -- Wash looked around the main office. There were desks arranged around the room, each furnished with a computer and chair, but the similarities between them ended there. It seemed everyone in the office had taken pretty keenly to personalizing their workspaces. Despite that, though, most of the desks were unoccupied.

“Most everyone’s out today,” York said, by way of explanation. “In the field. That’s a pretty good chunk of what we do here. Right now it’s just me and Connie -- ”

“ _CT_ ,” came the diminutive voice, impatient and annoyed. CT was already up from her desk, making a beeline for them. She was a good head shorter than Wash, small-framed, but the way she looked at him suggested that she’d take about as much bullshit from him as the Director would. “So you’re the new guy, huh? What’s your deal?”

“Wash, may I introduce you to Laura, designation Connecticut,” York said, obviously undaunted by CT’s prickly mood. “CT, this is Wash.”

“Washington, huh?” CT peered at his face, and Wash couldn’t help but get the feeling like she was trying to size him up, somehow. But she eased back after a moment, her posture relaxing, and she quirked a half-smile. “You look like you might actually last around here.”

“I, uh -- thanks?” Wash glanced at York uncertainly. “What is she talking about?”

CT rolled her eyes a little, but she was still sort of smiling. “Nice to meet you, Wash. But I’d better get back to work, because unlike _someone_ around here, I actually want to finish my paperwork by the end of the day.” She shot York a look and turned to head back to her desk. “And stop calling me Connie!”

“She doesn’t like being called Connie,” York informed Wash.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“So, this is _your_ desk.” York led Wash over to a mostly-empty desk not too far from CT’s. It seemed like it had been recently cleaned out; next to the computer was a bin full of what looked like personal belongings that had yet to be retrieved. “It’s pretty much for -- you know, paperwork and research and crap like that. I’m sure you get the idea.”

“Was someone fired recently or something?”

“Huh? No, actually, this is Iowa’s desk. He just never uses it, is all. So we’re giving it to you.” York picked up a tear-off desk calendar from the top of the pile in the bin; the theme seemed to be something to do with attractive shirtless dudes with tiny animals. The date on the topmost sheet was from three months ago. “See this? He’s never even here. I don’t know how he actually gets any work done. Anyway, it’s yours now. Go nuts.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Wash set his small stack of papers down on the surface of the desk, the thin employee manual resting on top of it. “So, uh...”

“Come on,” York cut him off, tossing the calendar back in its place. “I’ll give you the rest of the tour, show you how it all works around here. Can’t imagine the Director expects you to stick around till closing time today, but if you want to hang around, the others’ll be back at the end of the day, and then we’re all going out for dinner and drinks. You should come.”

“Oh -- I don’t know.” Wash cast a look back at the desk. “Maybe I should stay in tonight. I mean -- I need to go over the employee manual, and all of this paperwork -- ”

“Hey, it’s Friday. You don’t start officially till Monday. You’ve got all weekend.” York raised his eyebrows. “Come on, man, you should come. It’ll be a good chance to meet everyone -- you know, the people you’re gonna be working with? We won’t even be out all night.” Wash, though, still looked a little doubtful. “They all want to meet you, you know. The Director doesn’t exactly hire new recruits every day.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” Wash said slowly. “I mean -- it’s important to get to know my coworkers.”

“There you go.” York grinned and led him out of the main office, grabbing a keyring off the hook on the way out. “You’ll like ’em, I swear. Well -- okay, you might not like South. She’s kind of a bitch sometimes, but you get used to her. It’s almost cute, after a while.”

Wash wasn’t sure how he could see that as _cute_ , but he didn’t say anything as they walked back out into the corridor. “So how long have you been working here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Five or six years? Yeah, almost six.” York stopped at the door to the archives, unlocking it with the key he’d snagged. Wash shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants, rocking back on his heels a little.

“How’d you get the job? I mean, was there an advertisement, or -- ?”

York let out a dark little laugh. “Nah. The Director came to me with a job offer, when I was -- well, let’s just say I wasn’t at my best.” The door unlocked with a click, and he pushed it inward. “I had a _unique skill set_ , he told me. Can’t say he was wrong, really.”

“Funny. That’s kind of like what happened with me.”

“Yeah? Well, he does that. He’s got a good eye for talent, and for damaged goods, too, apparently. Pretty much everyone here’s got a skeleton in the closet or twelve.” York ushered him inside the archives, closing the door behind them. “So what’s yours, huh? You’re what, army?”

“Marine.” Wash’s eyes roved over the endless rows of shelves, stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of evidence and case files. The discomfort in his voice was palpable. “I was discharged last year after -- some stuff.”

“Hey, you don’t have to give me the details.” York shrugged. “Everyone here’s got some kind of past. Most are ex-cops or government of some kind. The Director kind of gave us all a second chance, I guess.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little weird? That he only hires people who -- _need_ it?”

“Oh, he’s definitely weird. Big time. But he’s a good guy at heart, I think. He’s been pretty good to us.” York pulled down a smaller box from one of the shelves, setting it on the counter that lined one wall. “You don’t really have to worry about anyone judging you here. I mean, mostly.”

“What did you do?” Wash asked, unable to contain his curiosity. York didn’t look like any cop he’d ever met, and he definitely wasn’t a soldier.

“Oh, I had a colorful kind of career,” York says vaguely, but he was grinning, sort of. “The kind of things that pay pretty good, but’ll get you very arrested if you step the wrong way. Course, that’s where my _unique skills_ come from.” He didn’t say anything more than that, and Wash didn’t press him for more. York nodded to the box on the counter. “Come on, I’ll show you how all this crap is organized.”

* * *

Six o’clock found Wash at a table at Friday’s with what seemed like the whole office -- and it was, really, except for Iowa. He was the only one Wash hadn’t met yet, because he’d been the only one who hadn’t showed up to clock out at the end of the day, but as York informed him, this was par for the course with Iowa.

It was hard to remember all their names, meeting them all at once like this, especially at first. It was all the more difficult that everyone had a code name on top of that. But York assured him that he’d learn them all in no time, that no one would begrudge him for forgetting names here and there at first.

The party settled almost immediately into what seemed to be their usual vibe. Conversation was a tangled, loud mess of laughing, shouting, and snapping, and Wash felt like he was starting to catch on. It was weird, the kind of rapport they had -- they weren’t all exactly buddies, and a lot of them seemed to rub against each other the wrong way, but there was a cohesion there, underneath, and Wash could feel it. There was something between them, a common ground, that kept them together, kept them almost friendly even when they hated each other. Wash recognized it almost immediately, but he hadn’t been expecting it. This wasn’t the military or the police, even if most of them had been involved in either or both, and yet -- this was the kind of teamwork, the kind of bond Wash would never have expected to see in a civilian organization.

And they _did_ hate each other, he noticed, at least some of them -- there were more rough patches than there were solid friendships in the group. Carolina was a little standoffish, Wyoming was condescending, and South was just a flat-out _bitch_ , and yet Wash thought he detected, at times, just the hint of a wry fondness underneath the curses they slung at each other. And yet, even in the hostility, Wash felt almost immediately like he fit in. York had been right.

It wasn’t long before Wash was engaged in the rapidfire conversation, at least where he could keep up, dishing out deadpan snark with as much gusto as South cursed, joining in when everyone collapsed into awful laughter. For the first time since his discharge, he felt some strange sense of belonging.

York had lied about one thing, though. Wash had more than a few drinks -- because York wouldn’t stop buying them, wouldn’t stop insisting on it -- and by the time it was just him and York at the table it was late, later than he’d said it would be. But sitting in that booth next to York, a little drunk and a little slumped in his seat, Wash couldn’t find it in himself to mind the hour too much.

“Hey,” he said at last, hand still loosely curled around his glass. It was still almost half full of beer, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish it. “It’s getting pretty late. I should -- probably go home. We should probably go.”

“Everyone else already left,” York said, his head bobbing in agreement. He plucked the soggy cherry out of his empty glass and popped it in his mouth before he started to slide out of the booth. He’d never struck Wash as the kind of guy to order a drink with a _cherry_ in it, but that had apparently been a misjudgment on his part. “C’mon, man. I’ll give you a lift home.”

“You can’t _drive_ ,” said Wash with an incredulous look. York took him by the arm and hauled him to his feet, and Wash staggered a half-step before he caught himself against the wall. He didn’t have problems with coordination when drunk, not _generally_ , but York had pulled him up a little fast. “You’re drunk.”

“ _You’re_ drunk,” York snorted. “Me, I’m just a little buzzed. Oh, don’t -- don’t even make that face. I never said _I_ was driving. Come on, we’ll get a cab.”

“That’s usually what ‘I’ll give you a lift’ _means_ ,” Wash muttered, but he let York pull him out of the restaurant and into the cool night air. The city still had that heady New York smell, like sex and gasoline, but there was a pleasant overtone to it at night. It didn’t take long for them to flag down a taxi.

“You in a hotel, or you have an actual place yet?” York sidled in after Wash, shutting the door behind him.

Wash fumbled with the seatbelt until he managed to buckle it, and leaned forward to give his address to the driver. “It’s, uh -- it’s an apartment. The Director set me up there. It’s just temporary, though, till I find someplace else.”

“Yeah?” York leaned back, not bothering with his seatbelt. The car lurched a little as they drove away from the curb. “You find anything yet?”

“Not yet, no. Still just kind of getting used to this city.” Wash glanced out the window, watching the streets and buildings speed around them. “It’s definitely different from Seattle.”

York just let out a noncommittal “mm” and went quiet, looking as though he’d sunk deep into some thought. Wash was content to watch the neon lights blur past through the window, but the lull was only a few moments long before York sat up and nudged him with his elbow.

“Hey -- you should move in with me.”

Wash turned from the window to stare at him, unsure if he was being serious or not. He’d only just met the guy, but York seemed to like messing with people. Wash searched for some hint of a grin, waiting for him to crack a smile, but York just raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

“What? Don’t give me that look. I’m serious.”

“ _Why_?” Wash eyed him, brow furrowed. “Look, no offense, but -- you just met me. _Today_. Why would you -- ”

“Because you need a place, and I’ve got a spare bedroom I need someone to occupy anyway. You work for the Director, and he doesn’t hire just anybody. You seem like a good guy, Wash. Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think so.” York bit his thumbnail, sucking on his teeth a little, and shrugged. “Besides, if I don’t like you, I’ll just kick you out.”

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of an apartment building which had clearly seen better days. Wash unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, but York just knocked his hand against his arm, shaking his head.

“I got it,” he said, with such casual and effortless conviction that Wash couldn’t really find a way to argue with him, just mumbled a thanks and pushed the taxi door open. York eyed the entrance to the building with a doubtful look, eyebrows raised.

“Looks like a nice place,” he said, and Wash didn’t quite scowl, but he didn’t smile, either. “Looks real...transient.”

“It’s temporary,” Wash said with a bit of a huff, starting to climb out of the taxi. York leaned after him.

“Glad you came out with us tonight,” he said, and it seemed a genuine enough sentiment. “You already fit in. It’s good.”

“Thanks,” Wash said, leaning against the car. “For -- the drinks, and the -- whole thing.”

“Don’t mention it.” York grinned. “And hey -- think about what I said. I’ll see you on Monday.” He didn’t give Wash a chance to answer, just reached over and pulled the door shut. The taxi rumbled back to life and sped away from the curb, leaving a blazing trail of taillights behind. Wash stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching as the taxi disappeared into the city, and dug in his pocket for his keys.


End file.
